


Bang-Bang He, Shot Me Down.

by millygal



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood and Gore, Gore, Hurt, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 02:29:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14510550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millygal/pseuds/millygal
Summary: Since when do monsters carry guns? Sitting in a pool of rapidly cooling monster innards, fluids of every colour and consistency soaking into what were hisonlypair of unsullied jeans, Dean genuinely watches the scene in front of him unfolding in heart breaking, mind blowing, pulse rate raising slow-motion.





	Bang-Bang He, Shot Me Down.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [madebyme_x](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madebyme_x/gifts).



> Written for the OhSam Hurt V Comfort Birthday Meme. A prompt fill for Madebyme_X - Kneecapped. This carries my trademark humor too, hun, I hope you don't mind. ♥ And just the tiniest bit of comfort slipped in here ;) Thanks as always go to my amazing beta, Jj1564 ♥

Dean remembers watching some god awful motel room movies over the years, the Z-Listed ones the management could actually afford the rights to, which were generally filled with no-name idiots who couldn’t hold a conversation that wasn’t written on an auto-cue card. As a teen he’d sit and flick through them, rolling his eyes and tutting at the truly terrible acting and over the top dramatic sequences, complete with slow-motion moments of chaos; bullets flying, body parts being hacked off, cars making gazpacho out of moronic bystanders, and every time, without fail, he would think to himself, “Nobody _sees_ in slow-motion. What an utter pile of horse-shit.”

Fast forward twenty years and too many injuries to count, including body parts almost being hacked off, lots of bullets flying, and nearly being run over by his own damned car - twice, and Dean thinks perhaps he was a little too quick to judge.

Sitting in a pool of rapidly cooling monster innards, fluids of every colour and consistency soaking into what were his **only** pair of unsullied jeans, Dean genuinely watches the scene in front of him unfolding in heart breaking, mind blowing, pulse rate raising slow-motion.

Sam is standing - just - facing off against the last of a pack of hyena werewolf hybrid monstrosities that, up until three days ago, were making a little town in Maine there newest snack stop.

Left arm cradled against his chest, right hand raised and shaking, holding out a silver machete, Sam swings his head towards Dean, who’s scrabbling to stand and step up beside his brother. 

Sam’s eyes flick back to the half phased beast still snapping, snarling and howling, and that’s when Dean’s world slows to a gut-wrenching crawl.

Instead of pouncing on Sam, the lone Were does something neither Winchester is expecting and pulls a Colt M19 out of his shredded trouser pocket.

Before Dean can straighten up and shout a warning, the cornered monster levels the gun on Sam, snarls, and pulls the trigger.

In the back of Dean’s mind, past the horror filled images of Sam’s head being blown clean off, Dean realises the creature just used the same fucking gun he himself owns to obliterate Sam’s left kneecap.

Dean doesn’t know whether it’s because it’s an identical weapon, complete with mother of pearl inlays, that just blasted a hole the size of Nebraska in Sam’s leg, or the fact that the monster isn’t even trying to run away and is just standing there gloating, but Dean’s vision kicks into high-gear.

Where moments ago he could see in excruciatingly slow detail the spark of gunpowder releasing a bullet that almost danced through the air before it slid into Sam’s flesh, now everything around him is running at a speed The Flash would be hard pressed to keep up with.

As Sam’s leg buckles beneath him and he hits the dirt, throwing up his hands, releasing the blade, and screaming in agony, Dean leaps forward, snatches the machete from the air and decapitates the creature still slavering and snarling at his brother.

Dean’s on the floor next to Sam, pulling him into his lap and running his fingers through the mess that was once Sam’s kneecap, before the creature’s head has even hit the ground.

“Sammy, crap, hold on brother, I’ve got you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam slips in and out of consciousness.

Actually _slip_ is too polite of a word to describe the way in which he keeps being forcibly dragged from blissful oblivion by the agony of Dean’s skilled fingers - always battlefield ready - ripping away the denim adhering itself to the oozing mess that used to be his kneecap.

Eyes rolling in his head, stomach threatening to expel his egg white breakfast omelette, Sam screams so loudly that Dean slips and digs a fingernail underneath what’s left of Sam’s patella, causing him to roll out of his brother’s lap and vomit, over and over again.

“Crap, Sammy, I’m sorry, but we gotta get you to a hospital, now!”

Sam tries to crawl away from Dean.

Not because Sam’s afraid his brother will hurt him, it’s his fight or flight instincts kicking in. He’s barely able to tell which way is up, but he knows he’s hurt, he knows he’s in danger, and he knows he has to get away from whatever’s causing the pain ripping through his left leg.

Using his fingernails to drag himself across the ground, Sam howls as the dirt and debris surrounding him gets lodged inside the wound on his leg.

It’s as he rolls over his vision finally clears and he sees Dean kneeling above him with a terrified expression on his face.

The fog lifts and Sam realises who he’s fleeing from, and he reaches out, lifting both hands and waggling his fingers. “Hey.”

Dean lets out a long loud breath and leans down, pressing his forehead against Sam’s. “Hey.”

Sam manages to shift ever so slightly and rest his lips against Dean’s forehead, before passing right back out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sound of Dean’s voice, raised to eardrum shattering levels, and pointed at one of the most accomplished doctors on the Brunswick’s staff sheet, can be heard clear out into the parking lot.

“I DON’T CARE IF YOU HAVE TO STAY HERE ALL FUCKIN’ NIGHT - FIX HIM!”

Doctor Miles Gilroy is no shrinking violet, no wall flower. He’s six foot tall and built like a linebacker, but the fury and worry on Dean’s face is enough to force him to take a step back and throw up his hands in supplication. “Mr Winchester, please. We’ve done everything we can right now. Your partner is fighting a fever, which means whatever was lodged inside the wound has caused an infection. We have to get that under control before we can even think of going in and repairing the damage to his knee and the surrounding tendons. You have to be patient.”

Dean knows he’s on the verge of being forcibly removed from the hospital, which will only make him do something stupid enough to get arrested, again, in order to get back in and be at Sam’s bedside, so he closes his eyes and takes a deep cleansing breath, before biting his lip and nodding. “I’m sorry, Doc, it’s just - “

Doctor Gilroy reaches out and lays a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “I understand, Mr Winchester, but we can’t force the issue. The infection has to clear. We just have to make sure Sam doesn’t do any more lasting damage whilst we treat it, okay?”

Dean doesn’t say anything, just nods, and fights back the ever present need to go out and kill something whenever Sam is hurt. Whether it’s a hangnail or a broken arm, Dean always wants to pummel something, because injury isn’t something he can fix. 

Give him a good old fashioned monster any day of the week.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam comes to surrounded by bleeping machines and enough wiring he thinks he might be in a radio-hut. It’s only the painful brightness of the room, and the sound of Dean’s elephant like snores, that alert him to the fact he’s obviously languishing in some hospital bed, hooked up to heart monitors and a pain medication drip.

Blinking back the darkness still trying to suck him into unconsciousness, Sam blindly reaches out and sighs with relief when his fingers come into contact with Dean’s unwashed spiky hair.

Whatever pain medication Sam has seeping into his system makes it really easy to forget he’s got a hole in his leg you could fit a fist in, and that he may have trouble figuring out how to put one foot in front of the other, from now on.

The pain is a dull ache rather than an all consuming fire ripping through his body, but Sam knows once the meds wear off, he’s going to be in for a world of hurt.

He’s considering trying to wake Dean when a nurse pokes her head inside the room and spots Sam’s open eyes, and his fingers carding through Dean’s hair as he snores and drools onto the crisp white sheet holding the patient in the bed captive.

She smiles and whispers. “Ah, you’re up.”

Sam’s eyes roll and he feels like he could pass out at any minute, but he manages to whisper a reply. “Up is a relative term. How long have I been here?”

The nurse’s eyes flick from Sam’s face to his hand, still resting atop Dean’s head, then back to his face. “You’ve been here two days. He hasn’t left your side.”

Sam smiles down at Dean, almost forgetting the nurse is in the room, until she gently clears her throat. 

“Seriously, he’s just refused to leave. At one point I thought he was going to offer to bed bath you himself. You’ve got a good one there, keep a hold on him. Although, you might wanna tell him he needs to rein in his temper, a touch.”

Sam’s trying to work out exactly why the nurse isn’t having a conniption fit about two brothers who seem way closer than they should be, when he realises Dean must have booked him in as his boyfriend, again. After the first few incidents of serious injury and hospital time, Dean got sick and tired of having to pretend not to want to curl up next to Sam, or vice versa, in the bed, so they simply started booking in as partners rather than brothers.

Sam’s not too far gone with whatever they’re pumping into his blood not to be extremely grateful for Dean’s quick thinking, because right now with his muzzy head and slightly nauseous feeling stomach, not to mention his newly ventilated leg, all Sam wants is to wrap himself around Dean.

Dean’s still happily snoring away as Sam lifts his head and asks the nurse a question. “Why have I been out for two days?”

She begins to fluff Sam’s pillows and fiddle with his drip, but smiles down at him and replies. “Infection at the wound site, but that seems to have cleared enough that you’re scheduled for surgery to go in and remove the shattered parts of your patella.”

As she talks Sam goes a funny shade of green, and she realises perhaps her time in the hospital has numbed her to the sheer grossness of some injuries. “Sorry, habit, bad habit. You’ll be fine. It’s not as bad as it looks. Physiotherapy and a few weeks here, you’ll be right as rain.”

The nurse finishes up doing whatever it is she’s doing to the machines and wiring attached to Sam’s every exposed piece of skin, and smiles. “I’ll let them know you’re awake.”

Sam’s body feels like it’s floating on a bed of bubbles, and he just about manages to reply before his eyes close and he’s snoring right alongside Dean.

“That might be a bit preemptive.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Three weeks in hospital, two operations, four weeks of intensive physical therapy and you are still the stubbornest fucker I have ever met, Sammy.”

Sam growls at Dean and flatly refuses to reply as he struggles along the double bars keeping him upright. His arms are killing him, they feel like they should be dragging on the floor. He’s been using his upper body so much lately that he’s starting to resemble a pro-wrestler, and his left leg is _still_ not working right, despite the hours and hours of retraining and excruciating exercises. Plus the plastic and metal parts they popped inside his leg, which Dean swears blind he can hear squeaking when Sam moves.

The first session was an unmitigated disaster, with two poor orderlies having to threaten to throw Dean out because every time Sam howled in pain as the therapist repositioned his leg, Dean would growl and loom over the pair of them with an air of homicidal maniac about him.

Eventually the therapist realised his best - and most healthy - bet would be to remain in the room but relay instructions to Dean, who in turn would physically help Sam do whatever they were instructed to do.

Finally Sam’s able to stand alone, but his left leg is extremely weak still and he keeps saying he’s beginning to wish they’d just chopped the fucking thing off.

Sam continues to amble and stumble between the bars. Back and forward, back and forward, until he hears Dean’s exasperated sigh and realises he’s probably about to get an ear bashing.

Sure enough, Dean strides over to the bars, steps up onto the platform, and grips Sam’s hips, tight. “Stop!”

Sam tries to push forward but Dean’s not moving. 

“No, really, stop, Sammy. It’s gonna heal, but you can’t push yourself like this. The therapist says if you don’t take breaks when your body needs them you’ll do more harm than good.”

Sam’s so frustrated he doesn’t think about who he’s yelling at, he just needs to yell. “I DON’T CARE! Look at me, I’m fucking useless. What good am I going to be on a damned hunt if everytime I try and turn around I drop like a fucking rock in a pond. You may as well just take me out back and shoot me.”

Dean scans the room and is pleased to note that the therapist seems to have stepped out, which he’s become very adept at doing when he can sense Sam’s temper flaring. And he only apparently needed to see one display of manly angry irritation and frustration based kissing before he realised these two might need the occasional moment of peace.

Dean knows it’s coming and braces for it, but it still almost knocks him off balance when Sam lashes out and thumps him in the chest, hard. 

“Get out of my fucking way.”

Dean grinds his teeth and breathes through his nose, trying to calm his own flickering anger. “No. And stop hittin’ me, you giant pawed oaf. You’ve got hands the size of dinner plates and I’m not made of granite. You’ve gotta stop this, Sammy, don’t make me put you over my knee - _oomph_.”

Sam growls and lunges, latching onto Dean’s waist, before slamming his lips down on the mouth still threatening to spank his ass if he doesn’t start treating himself properly.

They grapple on the platform, bouncing off of the bars, which make strange bonging noises every time they land awkwardly.

They’re inches from tearing away each other’s shirts when they both hear a slightly squeaky cough coming from the corner.

“ _ahem_ I think that’s enough for today, don’t **you**?”

Sam’s anger is all but gone, replaced by amusement at Dean’s embarrassed snorting and throat clearing. 

Leaning away from Dean, whose face is turning from beet red to Cadbury’s purple, Sam rolls his eyes and looks at the therapist, who’s own face is an interesting shade of pink, but he’s still smiling. “Sure thing, Doc. Same time Wednesday?”

Doctor Jason Gonzalez bites his bottom lip and nods at Sam, before thinking to himself that these two may just end up killing him. If he has to run off to the staff lounge one more time and down a litre of ice cold water, his colleagues are going to think he’s got some kind of serious problem. That or he’s going through the male menopause.

 

Fin


End file.
